


Holy Gunning Grandma, Batman!

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batgirl & Robin team up, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension, set around batgirl: year one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: Barbara kicked the rope away from her boots. “Alright,” she announced. “Ready to rock this shindig? Blow this joint?”“Hell, yeah. Love blowing joints.”“My prom date was personally interviewed by my father and you’re the most straitlaced guy I know. I’m not buying,” she teased, heading for the stairs.Dick and Babs get kidnapped on a mission, kick some ass anyway, and obtain those hot dogs yonder.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [vasterthanempires](http://archiveofourown.org/Users/empires) for the help and also for the beautiful fanfiction.
> 
> Also, this is a sequel of sorts to that [drabble I wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7998109/chapters/18309097) that is slightly less suitable for work than this creature here.

Barbara Gordon was not a particular fan of porn. She liked the idea well enough in theory; just not so much in actual videos. They consistently lacked the kind of sophistication she sought in any art form, and the lighting was usually bad. Unfortunately, she felt acutely as if she were starring in a porno. She couldn’t tell if it was the long slit in the tights along her inner thigh, the oddly and unnecessarily intricate rope knotting her to a cold metal pole in the dark basement of Gotham’s villain of the week, or Robin and his tiny pixie shorts strapped to the same pole.

As far as pornos went, it was sophisticated at least. The lighting was still crap.

She couldn’t see Robin behind her, but she could feel him squirming. It was impressive – albeit, awkward as heck – how much mobility he maintained. She couldn’t budge a centimeter. He had been squirming since their kidnapper took a flight of stairs out of the room. Barbara sighed irritability. “Don’t you have an earpiece?” she asked. “Just radio Batman in before Lucio gets back.”

Their kidnapper was a grunt for a barely-bloomed mob in Gotham. He went by Lucio “Just Lucio” Lucio, as Robin had helpfully summarized two hours before Just Lucio himself caught them by the scruff of their necks and hauled ass to his budget torture chamber.

Robin continued writhing around in the rope. She heard him scoff, real close to her ear, like a whisper and a snort rolled into one. “So I can play Boy Hostage again? I don’t think so.”

Barbara smirked and tried to lean her head towards him. “Why not? You just fall into the role so _naturally.”_

“Hey, I’m not the only one down here. Just keep that in mind, _Girl_ Hostage.”

“Remind me not to crown you mastermind again for the _next_ mission.”

“You know, Batgirl,” he began. At that very moment, she felt the rope slacken around her torso and her heart nearly skipped a beat. “It seems that whenever a plan doesn’t work, it’s wholly my idea. And whenever it _does_ work out, it’s _your_ idea. Why is that?” he asked, an implicit ‘checkmate’ in his tone.

“Because all the plans that succeeded actually _were_ my ideas,” she answered. “What’s going on back there? The rope’s loose.”

“What’s going on is _my_ plan. My very much _succeeding_ plan, thank you.”

A moment passed and the rope around her left elbow loosened as well. Barbara twisted her head around to get a better look. Her neck strained, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Robin’s arm bent at an angle no arm should ever be bent at. She snapped her head forward, vaguely queasy. Barbara had seen a lot of broken bones and bloodied limbs, but usually the person was crying in pain. That reaction was _natural._

Robin's nonchalance was not.

“Why do you look like origami?” she asked, not even bothering to conceal her discomfort.

The complex knot was being undone at different joints in rapid increments. “I knew a guy named Cal, back in Haly’s Circus. Taught me how to bend my body, you know.”

Barbara immediately recalled that night on the roof weeks ago: Robin sprawled beneath her, lip busted, legs lean. She bit the inside of her cheek and hurriedly said, “Whoa, whoa, I don’t need to know about your wild nights with a circus boy – ”

“What!” exclaimed Robin. _“No._ God, Batgirl, _no._ He was a contortionist. I picked up a few things out of _boredom._ I didn’t, like – I couldn’t _stand_ that dude, come on.”

“How should I know!” Barbara defended, but heat was already in her cheeks. She needed to stop thinking like _that_ around Robin. It was doing her a total of zero good. Then her mind registered the other half of his statement: _I couldn’t stand him._ “Wow, though,” she went on. “So, there are people you don’t like?”

“Of course. Everyone hates somebody. There’s a lot of shitty somebody’s in the world. I think most of them are in Gotham actually.”

It probably shouldn’t have meant much, but there was something comforting in knowing Robin was human enough to let others get on his nerves. “I guess you’re right,” Barbara conceded. “You just always seem friendly with people. Like the kind of guy who loves everyone. If that makes sense.”

She heard a quiet _thunk_ as the rope on Robin’s side hit the concrete floor. Robin faced her now, yellow cape worse for the wear and knife-sliced skin splitting his smile. “Smooth way to call me a tramp,” he joked, working on her binding.

“Haha, hilarious. Shut up,” Barbara ordered, not wanting to laugh in case the sound carried upstairs. She watched Robin’s fingers dance from rope to rope. “Wait, I got a switchblade on my belt. Fifth pocket to the right.”

“Sweet.” Robin grabbed her blade and sawed the rope until she was completely freed.

Barbara kicked the rope away from her boots. “Alright,” she announced. “Ready to rock this shindig? Blow this joint?”

“Hell, yeah. _Love_ blowing joints.”

“My prom date was personally interviewed by my father and you’re the most straitlaced guy I know. I’m not buying,” she teased, heading for the stairs.

Robin followed at her heels. “Not buying what? Joints? Good girl. My father would totally approve if he interviewed you as _my_ prom date.”

“Was that an invitation?” she murmured and dropped to the floor. She peered through the crack at the bottom of the door, searching for shoes. The light was off; a good sign.

Robin lowered to his knees too. His mouth was right next to her ear when he said, “Only if that’s a yes.”

His breath tickled and she jerked away, sticking a finger in her ear. She stood up, nearly knocking her head into Robin’s, and tested the doorknob. When it didn’t turn, she plucked a wire from her belt and began picking it. “Ah,” she said, pleased, and slowly pushed the door open.

Everything was dark and silent on the main floor.

“If he’s gone, we should search the place. See what we can pin on him,” Robin suggested.

“No shit,” replied Barbara. Quiet as possible, they crossed over into the room and shut the door behind them. She pulled out her batarang. “Be ready,” she instructed.

Robin held an escrima stick in each hand. “No shit.”

Barbara allowed her eyes to adjust before proceeding. The only light was a lone window; the moon peeked between the cracks of the blinds like blue stripes on lined paper. There was an island counter complete with stools and a wooden bowl of fruit. Barbara raised her eyebrow at it. “We’re looking at interior decorators here,” she commented.

Robin snorted. “How much you want to bet the fruit’s plastic?”

Barbara crept forward, scrutinizing every shadow. “He’s a drug mule and a child trafficker, Rob. He’s got more to answer for than fake grapes.”

“The grapes certainly aren’t helping his case, though.”

Barbara felt around the walls, deciding the room was clear. She swatted the light switch. Ceiling lights flickered on, one by one, bathing the room in muted yellow. The counters were green marble and floral wallpaper coated the area. A cookie jar shaped like a chicken rested beside the gas stove. “Wow,” said Barbara.

“That is the fakest marble I’ve ever seen,” Robin criticized, closing the gap between him and the island. His hands darted into the ball and plucked a grape from the stem. He squeezed it experimentally. “Yup. Plastic,” he determined and chucked the reject back into the bowl.

Barbara rolled her eyes at him. “For a kid who grew up on a train, you’re pretty Old Money,” she observed. A threshold without a door introduced a patch of thick off-white carpet. _Must be the living room,_ thought Barbara. She padded over to it.

“Having roots doesn’t mean I can’t branch out,” replied Robin sagely.

What the hell, she’d throw him a bone. “Your puns. I’m _wilting,”_ she said dryly. She suppressed her smile when Robin snickered.

“There should be some stairs leading to a second floor in this room,” she said, flipping on the next switch. As soon as she did, someone yelled, _“Freeze!”_

Robin and Barbara jerked backward, settling into fight stances. An elderly woman had jumped up from behind a plastic-covered loveseat. Her silver hair was pinned in hot pink curlers that contrasted against her blue silk nightgown. She held an AK-47.

“Holy gunning grandma, Batman!”

“Not now, Robin!” To the woman, Barbara said, “Ma’am, please lower your weapon.”

The woman refused. “I’ll be rolling in my grave before I take orders from little girls, thank you.”

“Hey, who said anything about graves? I think we can avoid graves entirely if we all agree to carry out the rest of this evening in a _calm,_ _friendly,_ _rational_ manner,” Robin intervened. He smiled peacefully and nodded.

“Yes!” agreed Barbara. “Totally! So, ma’am, if you may – lower your weapon.”

The woman’s eyebrow quirked, like they were trying to play her and she knew it in that mystic grandmother way. “I haven’t seen either of you make any moves to drop _your_ weapons.”

 _“What?”_ said Barbara. “We’re holding bat-shaped toys! You’ve got a gun! They’re not _equivalent.”_

“Wow, okay, you didn't call them ‘toys’ when Batman so kindly bestowed them upon you,” protested Robin.

“Excuse me?”

“I just think you were being kind of rude right there. The batarang has helped you out in a lot of situations. That’s all.”

Barbara opened and closed her mouth a couple times before saying, “Don’t talk to me.”

She expected silence, but he added, “Don’t dismiss the batarang.”

“Robin, you’re not – ” _cute,_ she was going to finish. Then she noticed the slight clenching in his jaw, and she suddenly remembered, _Right. Batarang._ Quickly, she spun the batarang once and flung it at the gun. The gun went off at the same time the wings hooked onto the gas block. Robin dived to the floor while Barbara yanked the gun towards her.

The gun scattered across the floor. Robin dashed into the living room. He jumped onto the couch and sprung forward, kicking the woman in the chest. She fell on her back, Robin still on top of her. The weight of her shook the lamp on an end table and Barbara cringed at the sound of creaking bones.

The woman groaned and swatted at Robin ineffectively. He dodged her with ease, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his belt. Then he dismounted from her chest and pushed her into a sitting position. Barbara took that time to pick up the gun and begin disassembling it.

“Ma’am, you’re under arrest for suspicion of — ”

The woman shoved Robin’s cuffs away from her and interrupted him with a sneer. “They make five year-old cops now?”

“You’re under informal arrest,” Robin corrected, seizing her arm and pinning it behind her back. She tried to get out of his grasp, but his fingers only dug into her skin until she cried out in pain. Robin slapped the cuffs around her wrists.

“Apprehension,” Barbara volunteered, bits of the gun clattering onto the kitchen tile. “She is being apprehended, though not yet arrested.”

Robin stood up. “Anticipated arrest!” he declared.

“Or that,” Barbara mumbled. “That works, I guess.”

The woman wriggled in her cuffs and tried to stand without balance. Robin pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. Somehow, he seemed gentle even as he shoved the woman back on her knees. Barbara kind of liked that about Robin; his delicate way of being rough.

She glanced away before Robin could catch her staring. Her eyes drifted to the staircase and she remembered with a touch of nerves whom they had been searching for initially. “Where’s Lucio?” she asked.

“Out,” the woman answered gruffly.

Robin looked at Barbara helplessly. She retrieved her batarang and headed into the living room. “Let’s not waste time. Robin, you keep watch. I’m going upstairs.”

“Alone? What if someone’s hiding up there?”

Barbara smiled and spun the batarang in the air. “I’ll arrest them informally.”

Robin grinned, but didn’t relent. “You sure? Gunning Grandma isn’t going to wander off much if I come with you.”

“I’m sure. I’ll scream if I need you.”

“Scream if you need me to what?”

Barbara nearly replied, _Come,_ but she stopped herself and gave Robin a withering look. He snickered into his hand. “Whatever,” she dismissed, taking the stairs.

It was likely that there was someone hiding. After all, the elderly woman had quietly waited behind a couch for them to enter her firing range. Who knew what this house was prepared for?

She reached the top of the stairs and squeezed her batarang.

At any rate, they weren’t prepared for _her._ She turned the hallway light on.

The light was the color of old paper. Even the walls were like smudged graphite with smeared dirt here and thin dust there. The house wasn’t impeccable like Robin always described where he lived. It wasn’t dilapidated or rotting, either. It was tired, a little old, and inhabited. It might even be happy on other days.

The thought that this house was a lot like the one she shared with her dad felt wrong and violating. Like old, tired happiness wasn’t a thing that belonged in the drapes and cookie jars of evil people. But when she registered the half peeled off, ageing stickers on a door to the left, Barbara couldn’t deny this place had laugh lines.

There were two other doors beside the one plastered in stickers. One was open; the other closed. She chose the closed one nearest to the stairs, opening it slowly, wary of movement behind or in front of her.

A large, shadowed figured appeared in the room and she threw her batarang at it. The metal hit the man’s face and he shouted, dropping a pistol and burying his nose in his fists. Barbara recognized the figure as Lucio. She dived towards him, kicking the gun away from them. She grabbed the rope of her batarang and tossed it. It looped around his neck. She pulled both ends, wrangling him. In his shock, he doubled forward, away from her. It was a stupid move — he only helped her to choke him.

He gasped, meaty hands pawing at his throat. She noticed the blood streaming downing his mouth. “Robin!” she called. There was no way she was going to be able to hold him. As usual, she didn’t hear Robin’s feet approaching, but he was in the room within seconds. By then, however, Lucio was already standing. Barbara refused to release the batarang, so her toes lifted off the ground.

Robin’s head whipped around the room. Guns were mounted on the walls and displayed in glass cases. There were desks cluttered with notepads and pencil-carrying mugs. Boxes of various sizes were stacked on the floor and on a rocking chair that had seen better days.

Robin skidded toward the chair, hefted it up, and threw it at Lucio. Lucio stumbled backwards, dragging Barbara with him. She tucked in her knees and allowed the rope to burden her entire weight. The nape of his neck was bright red.

From downstairs, the elderly woman yelled, _“What’s going on?”_

Robin flew towards them, escrima sticks out. He danced behind Lucio who was preoccupied with throwing Barbara off. “What’s wrong, Lucio?” asked Robin. “Not into kids who fight back?” He kicked in the back of Lucio’s knees

Lucio fell and Barbara leaped to the floor, tightening the batarang. “I think we’re cuter for it,” she grunted, muscles straining. How Robin kept up a running commentary in battles eluded her.

“Agreed,” said Robin, striking Lucio’s throat with one stick and bashing his skull with the other. Lucio’s nose was already bleeding from Barbara’s batarang; now he looked a tad disoriented. Still, Lucio persevered and reached for Robin. He pranced out of Lucio’s reach, tucking his sticks in his belt and unsheathing a can of pepper spray, and went wild. Lucio yelped as the chemicals sprayed his face and hands.

And then he slackened. Robin and Barbara watched Lucio for possibly ten seconds. “Is he unconscious?” Robin said carefully.

Barbara let go of the batarang. “I think so.”

Robin extracted a cellphone from his belt. He keyed in the number _2_ and held it to his ear. “Order for pick-up,” he chirped, giving Barbara’s dad the information. Barbara took out her own cuffs and restrained Lucio’s wrists and ankles.

“Come on,” said Robin, hanging up. “Let’s make sure Gunning Grandma is properly bound, and then beat it.”

“You got somewhere to be?” she asked, even though she had no interest in her dad finding Batgirl. She was sure Robin had little interest in confronting Jim Gordon’s gaggle of brainless cops either.

Robin’s lips tugged into a smile. “Always.”

* * *

 

Later, Robin and Barbara shuffled out into the night air, recounting the events excitedly and making fun of Batman for everything and anything they could think of. She wasn’t sure what Robin got out of it, but Barbara felt like a legend in her own right, equal enough to Gotham’s defender to see him as something less than almighty.

Dressed in capes and hidden by masks, with bruises on their arms and the whisper of growing headaches, it wasn’t unbelievable to think they, too, were legends. After all, they saved a bunch of kids from trauma. Avoided bullet wounds and inflicted a self-righteous amount of pain onto a mobster and his mom. The cops accepted their help without even seeing them. They were untouchable. No one knew who they were.

Not even each other.

“Hey, you want to get a hot dog, or something?” Robin asked. The white films of his mask obscured his eyes. She wondered what color they were and if they were pretty.

“From where?”

“Bowling alley? I like bowling alleys. All the strobe lights and the hip-hop music,” said Robin.

Barbara considered this as they rounded upon their bikes. She nudged the kickstand up and hopped onto the seat. “In costume?”

Robin ignited his bike. “Yeah, in costume. Nothing illegal about heroes buying greasy food at Gotham Pins.”

Barbara gave this some thought. She had gone on bowling dates before. They were the kind of classic, wholesome touchstones in the relationships her dad permitted. A boy had even lent her his jacket on one of these dates. She wasn’t even that cold, but he was nice enough and she wanted to reward that.

A bowling date with the Boy Wonder. Not as Barbara Gordon, but as Batgirl. Not wearing her cute green hairband, the one that complemented her eyes, but a dark purple mask and cleat boots. And Robin wouldn’t have a jacket to drape across her shoulders, heavy and claiming. When she’d laugh at his jokes, she wouldn’t catch whether he was flustered by the darting of his eyes. That would be kept a mystery. But he would smirk, because Robin loved to smirk, and he’d probably sprawl his body across a retro-looking cushion in boyish vanity.

And everyone in the building would watch them, uncertain but intrigued, and they’d sit so close together that no one would approach for a picture. It would be a classic date, but twisted, like the curl of Robin’s lips, like his humor sometimes, like every night Batgirl relished, beating back criminals twice her size and half her wit.

“Who’s paying?” Barbara inquired, just to tease at this point.

“I suppose the one who asked,” replied Robin, fingers gripping the handlebars and gaze fixed on her. It was almost a challenge, sometimes, how he stared.

Maybe she didn’t care what color Robin’s eyes were. Maybe the best thing about him was not knowing. He was a flash fire; exhilarating in the moment and out like a candle come sunrise. Maybe he was like all the boring boys she held hands with at GPD fundraiser dances, maybe he turned in every homework assignment at a normal school he attended with normal friends before going home to normal parents.

Or maybe he was always this wild child who rode motorcycles and wore screaming green panties to bowling alleys with weird, acrobatic friends. Maybe strobe lights followed him everywhere he went.

“I’m sold. Take me to that yonder hot dog, where the music is hip and the lights are strobe,” Barbara accepted.

His eyes were still unreadable, but his snort was pretty telling. “Nerd,” he informed, pressing the gas and speeding down the road. Not to be outdone, she peeled off after him. Barbara couldn’t tell, but that might’ve been a call to arms.

The best part was not knowing.


End file.
